


I Shall Either Find A Way (Or Make One)

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written as a prequel/companion fic for <a href="http://megyal.dreamwidth.org/322637.html">"here's the part where you put your feet in my hands (I'll make sure you walk on air)"</a>.</p><p>Art by <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/hybiscus/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/hybiscus/"><b>hybiscus</b></a>. The original art post is <a href="http://hybiscus.livejournal.com/52075.html">here</a>. <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/hybiscus/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/hybiscus/"><b>hybiscus</b></a> also kindly made some art for the other fic! I put the corresponding art in the body of the fics, I'm really delighted with them</p>
    </blockquote>





	I Shall Either Find A Way (Or Make One)

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a prequel/companion fic for ["here's the part where you put your feet in my hands (I'll make sure you walk on air)"](http://megyal.dreamwidth.org/322637.html).
> 
> Art by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hybiscus/profile)[**hybiscus**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hybiscus/). The original art post is [here](http://hybiscus.livejournal.com/52075.html). [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hybiscus/profile)[**hybiscus**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hybiscus/) also kindly made some art for the other fic! I put the corresponding art in the body of the fics, I'm really delighted with them

  _"...O sleep, O gentle sleep,  
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,  
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down  
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?  
..Then happy low, lie down!  
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown."  
-Shakespeare's Henry IV. Part II, 1597._

From the keep of Arma, the stronghold of the Imperial Machine, the High Chancellor (a man who was once wholly flesh and blood) watched his city slumber in fits and starts. For his part, he hadn't slept properly in years.

The mechanical construct over his right eye hummed as it rotated, zooming in on a view in the street. A few vehicles trundled along the brightly lit roads, stopping now and again for potential, late-night passengers. The hanging lanterns possessed halos bestowed to them by the low-hanging mist, and the sounds of the machines were muted by the same fog.

The High Chancellor pressed his hands against the cool, damp surface of the wall; labouriously, he climbed atop it and stood to sway slightly in the breeze. The material was designed to look like rock, but was created out of thick layers of iron. He could feel the murmur of the city humming through the metallic framework which now took place of his long-removed bone; the song of the city was a constant conversation of life, love, hate, want... all those deep notes of emotion and every trill in between.

He listened very carefully to his city. The melody was one he loved, a song he had helped write himself. At times, the music got too loud, but the Chancellor refused to lock it out.

Yet, as he nodded to the beat, there seemed to be a missing note. It was something he had always noticed; that one absent line, or even an entire section, which left the entire song of the city lacking, and he suspected that the deficiency was more on his part than anywhere else.

It troubled him. It gnawed at his thoughts when he sat at his bank of flickering screens, the ones that showed him the hidden corners of his city. It bemused him, mostly because he wasn't sure what he should be bemused over. He was only certain that there was something lacking, something he _needed_. It was important. Even though most of his body had been converted to metallic components, he still possessed a strong sense of what might be called intuition; this told him that there was a place that needed to be filled, and he should find out a way to fill it soon.

Find a way... or make it. And if he couldn't make it, then maybe it was time to give up all of this. It would be easy. He could take a single, large step and the city would be rid of the man who had carved it out of those tumultuous stages so long ago. Now there was peace, and no use for a revolutionary of his kind. Just one step--

"Pete," someone called from the arched doorway that led out into the wide, open space of the keep. The High Chancellor didn't turn his head, but his lips curved up into a small smile.

"I'm not going to jump," he said, raising his voice so that he could be heard over the sharp gusts of wind.

"I didn't think you were going to." The speaker was Pete's head of security; Andy stood beside him in a moment, his gaze searching and heavy on the side of Pete's face. Pete's smile grew a little wider. 

"All the same," Andy continued, "it would put my mind at ease if you stepped back a little from that ledge, my friend."

Pete actually laughed out loud at that; he turned his head to give Andy what he hoped was a sly little grin. From Andy's composed expression, he didn't quite pull it off as successfully as he'd hoped.

"Very well," he said and took one large step back. He stumbled a little as a servo-motor in his left knee made grinding sound. One of Andy's hands shot out and grasped him by the upper arm; his fingers were warm and strong, even through the thick robes that Pete had donned for his private viewing of the city.

Andy gave him an annoyed little shake. He was one of the few persons in the entire city who could do that so casually. There were entire sections that would close down in shock if the Chancellor so much as drove past them in one of the Imperial octopeds. Andy, however, disregarded Pete's glare, which was fixed pointedly on where Andy was gripping him.

"I thought you got your check-up from the doc," he said very mildly, but he was frowning at Pete, who sulked a little. Internally, at least.

"I didn't go."

"That motor sounds like it's just about ready to give up the ghost, Pete," Andy scolded and shook him again, like a bad student who refused to do their homework. Pete stifled a sigh; he had fought his way to the top with Andy by his side. He supposed that gave Andy the absolute right to act this way; at the same time, he was glad that Andy had the good sense to do so when they were by themselves.

"Kindly unhand me, Mr. Hurley," he tried now, aiming for murmured frostiness. Andy's eyebrows twitched at him, before obeying.

"Of course, High Chancellor. My apologies." He said this the way he would say _fuck you kindly_ , and Pete stifled a scoff at his daring. That was the comforting thing about Andy; he would never change, at least in the fundamental ways that mattered, from the feral boy that had helped Pete to start a revolution in a city that had been dying. "But you're going to the Doc. _Right now_."

"It just needs greasing," Pete hedged, but he still made his way to the arched doorway that led to the winding staircase, hobbling. The motor in his knee screeched as if it was hell-bent on proving Pete's lies. Pete gave it a threatening stare before speaking again. "I'm sure of it. Not a big concern."

"I'll follow you," Andy suggested, as if Pete hadn't tried to brush him aside unceremoniously. "I have my own checks to do, I find."

Pete had been standing on the top landing of the staircase, wondering if he could make his way without his knee failing completely and tumbling him all the way down the winding stairs; now, he turned and gave Andy a small smile.

"And possibly add a few more enhancements?"

Andy's responding smile was the epitome of mild. He only had enhancements on his fingers, to assist with the handling of the gleaming weaponry slung low on his hips. The long black trench-coat that was the uniform of all Imperial Officers seemed to provide no barrier to drawing those guns; Pete was always delighted with his eerie speed. However, in a city where enhancements were the norm, Andy was a bit of an anomaly. He swore he would never get any more machinery built into his body, no matter how Pete pressed.

"You have enough for both of us," was all he said and Pete shrugged. Grudgingly, he allowed himself to be helped down the stairs.

*

"What have you _done_ with this?" Doctor Gabe poked around Pete's knee in a half-scowling, half-jocular manner. "I built these to last at _least_ two more years, and...look at this gear, _damn_."

"I kneel a lot, Doc," Pete said. He leaned back in the plush chair that had been brought down from his own private seats, letting his grin slip to one side in what felt like a wry manner. Behind the large mechanical monocle affixed on the left side of his face, Gabe rolled both eyes.

Pete said, "Don't believe me?" just to watch Gabe roll his eyes again.

"Last time I saw you kneel, _cabrón_ , you were accepting the mantle fifteen years ago." With a dangerous-looking pair of pliers, Gabe gingerly pulled out a damaged cog and heaved a sigh. "You don't give these things a break, don't you?"

Pete twitched his shoulders, and tilted his head so he could watch the replacement procedure carefully. Gabe's hands were sure, as always, and the robotic man at his side handed over tools with silent efficiency. Pete glanced up at it. Gabe was a genius, and he was completely insane at times.

Luckily, Pete _liked_  insane, and since Gabe was one of his oldest friends he was allowed to develop his experiments. Pete himself was a recipient of a great many of Gabe's inventions, from the filaments under his skin that connected him to the City's main communication networks, to the tiny bit of machinery in his eye which worked far better than the huge monocle that Gabe still insisted on sporting.

"You need someone to stop you from being such a dick to yourself," Gabe scolded, sounding absent-minded as he handed his metallic assistant a tool and accepted another; this insectile machine was placed right against Pete's kneecap, and it began to place minuscule stitches into the skin that had been grown from his own to cover the metal. 

"Few people can withstand my particular brand of awesome for too long," Pete said, and laughed out loud when Gabe snorted. "No, seriously. Remember that kid from the Barony downriver?"

"You broke up with him on purpose," Gabe said, removing the stitcher and inspecting its work before nodding in satisfaction. "He had money, he had time and he could keep up with you."

"I didn't like his hair." Pete tilted his head back to gaze at the pipes which snaked around the ceiling of the labs, pulling in and cleaning the smog-laden air of the city.

"His hair was just as ridiculous as yours. How about that lady, that Simpson duchess?"

Pete allowed a nostalgic smile. "She was really nice. I mean..." Pete shrugged again. "She deserves someone that can attend to her every need, pay attention to her every moment of the day. She didn't really understand my working hours. I..."

Pete paused, staring out the single window of Gabe's laboratory, at the dim outlines of the surrounding towers. "I think I'm _married_ to the city."

"For fuck's sake," Gabe muttered and blinked innocently when Pete turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. "Sorry, Your Grace. Maybe I should build you someone," he said, and laughed as he placed all his equipment in a case that was held open by his assistant, putting them carefully in their own compartments to be cleaned. Gabe didn't notice the stunned manner in which Pete gazed at him after his last declaration. However, when he glanced up at Pete, he pulled back a little, staring back at the High Chancellor warily.

Pete wondered what his face looked like, to have Gabe regard him like that. He'd been told before that he had a very intense air, drawing people to him and repelling them at the same time.

"What is it?" Gabe said, working his way through the words as if he felt Pete would throw lightning bolts at him.

"You could--" Pete stopped and cleared his throat. He allowed his gaze to slide over to Gabe's mechanical aide; it looked back at him steadily, calmly. Gabe turned his head, following his line of sight, and then turned back to frown at Pete.

"I could what?"

"Build me a person," Pete said, and smiled at Gabe's rapid blinking. "A _real_ person."

"That's not possible." Gabe got to his feet, tugging his clothing tightly around his tall, slender frame. The shades of the cloth were blinding, especially against the muted silver of the labs. "I can build something _like_  a person, and even then, I don't have all the--"

"You have the might of the Imperial Machine behind you, Doctor Saporta." Pete got to his feet, his knee now moving without the stiffness which had plagued him a few moments ago. "All the best minds, all the latest inventions. More than half of those are yours, in any case. You can do it." He gathered his own robes close, and gave his old friend a smile. It felt widely insincere and ghastly on his face, just the way he wanted it to appear. Gabe shook his head, a slight movement...but Pete just kept smiling until, slowly, Gabe started to nod.

*

Andy keyed the door to his quarters, trying to tumble the weary load that seemed permanently affixed to his shoulders. He had already given his orders for tonight's guard-shifts, and he was going to get up at two in the morning to take up his own. He pushed open the door, and exhaled heavily through his nose at the mess strewn about the floor.

"Mixon!" he yelled, and took a quick step back as the largest heap of metal seemed to shake itself, dog-like, and began to rise up from the floor. Both of Andy's guns were in his hands in a moment, fingers barely squeezing the triggers.

"Hurls!" A gleeful voice emanated from the now massive pile of scrap, and Andy shifted his fingers away, so he wouldn't put very large holes into a person who had been in his life for so long. "Look at this, I'm arranging all the electromagnetic fields and I--"

"How many times have I told you that I don't need to hear your research crap when I get home," Andy asked, very flatly.

"--and now it's like all this scrap has become a _shield_ , you see? Isn't this amazing, and look here, I'll talk about my research crap as much as I want, you chatter about the Chancellor all the time and it's not like I _want_  to hear that stuff, makes me tired just to _listen_  to you go on and on, shooting assassins and whatnot--"

"Take off all that metal." Andy moved back his index fingers to the cool slopes of the firing mechanisms. "Or I'll shoot them off you."

"You need to work on your sweet-talk." The column of metal shook itself, then fell to the floor. Andy couldn't prevent an involuntary widening of his eyes when he realized that underneath all that impromptu shield, the other man had been naked. Mixon's lips lifted, a sultry smirk. "See anything you like?"

Andy holstered his guns and composed his expression; however, he licked his lips and swallowed hard, his mouth was that dry. He let his gaze travel up Mixon's long legs, taking in his thickening cock, the flat stomach and broad shoulders. When he finally got to that smooth brown face, he smiled at the honest grin he found there.

Mixon beckoned to him, a slow wave of talented fingers. Andy shrugged off his heavy coat, hanging it on the nearby hook. He unstrapped his guns and placed them carefully on a nearby table, before stepping over the remains of Mixon's work and marching over to him.

Mixon's arms folded around him, just as their lips met in mutual hunger.

*

Andy fell back against the bed, breathing hard and sweating. Mixon rolled from atop him, managing to grimace and grin at the same time. He had the larger frame of the two, but damn if he didn't like to be on top when he rode Andy. He was _heavy_ , and even though Andy complained about it, he enjoyed the presence of that weight, this physical manifestation of their closeness. He thought about how hot and tight Mixon had been around him a few moments ago and his cock twitched, eager but spent.

"Tell me things," he said, closing his eyes and flinging one arm over his face. The bed creaked and shifted as Mixon got up; in a few moments, Andy felt a warm cloth wipe at his genitals. He felt the bed dip again as Mixon reached over to return the fabric back to the side-table, and then a finger tracing idly around one of his nipples.

"What kinds of things?" 

"Doctor Saporta's project for the Chancellor," Andy said. "Specifically speaking, that is."

"Oh, but that is _confidential_ , Colonel-General Hurley." Mixon's tone was teasing. "All engineers and scientists working in the Project are legally and morally bound not to divulge any information-"

"I'm responsible for the High Chancellor's personal safety," Andy cut in. "If this  _Project_  ends up harming him in any way, I would have failed in my job... and my duty as his friend."

A long silence ensued, and then lips closed over the nipple which had been teased. Andy pressed back his shoulders into the mattress, arching up into the warm mouth.

"The Project," Mixon murmured as he licked his way to the other side of Andy's chest, "will probably do more for the Chancellor's peace of mind than hurt him. _He's_  the one who ordered this to be done. _He's_  the one that fed all the personality traits and quirks into the Mainframe, and _he's_  the one who insisted on a musical background. We're following orders."

"You don't know him as well as I do. He'll take something that's good for him and make it into poison." Andy said, and let his arm fall from his eyes as he allowed himself to be manhandled onto his side; Mixon took hold of his topmost leg and pulled it up, draping it over his thigh. "He's...he's changed. I worry about him."

"The Project will help him," Mixon said, confidently. "We've made it absolutely perfect, just the way he wanted it. Don't worry, all right?"

Andy sighed, and then groaned when he felt Mixon's hands groping at his crotch. "Fine. I suppose I should be worried about your insatiable appetite, then."

"Exactly," Mixon said, grinning and pulled Andy on top this time.

*

 _The most efficient way of making a machine life-like is to start from the beginning, with a human base. That is the First Law of the Imperial Machine: the spark of humanity is the ultimate source._

*

Pete hid his trembling hands in his sleeves, ignoring the slicing intensity of Andy's stare. The contingent of security accompanying the High Chancellor right now was absolutely ridiculous; why Andy felt that Pete needed to walk three officers deep when he was safely within Arma was beyond Pete's scope of understanding, but he withstood it. It was only for a short walk, anyway.

He hadn't been sleeping; he'd been plugged into the communication networks almost constantly, listening to lives and hearts and breaths as the Project was constructed. He heard whispers of the resources being spent on his whim, but they had no idea just how much he needed this. 

Andy's gloved fingers pressed against his wrist, and it was only then that Pete realized he was shaking even more.

"Are you all right?" Andy murmured, and Pete took a deep breath. The new filter inside his throat burned a little, but he would get used to it in time. He nodded, keeping his gaze straight ahead. The guard in front of him must have sensed the press of the Chancellor's stare, for he visibly went even more rigid, his stride almost completely locked at the knee.

Andy's touch remained, the warmth of his fingers slipping underneath Pete's wide, long sleeves. Pete pulled away, and turned his head to give Andy a quick grin.

"Cease your worrying," he said, a command even though it was cloaked in a smile. Andy nodded and let his hand fall. "I'm nervous, that's all."

"You shouldn't be." Andy's voice was stern. "Gabe said that the Project was completely successful. It's everything you wanted."

"But suppose it... _he_  doesn't like me?"

Andy grabbed his hand this time, forcing Pete to stop in his tracks. The whole troop, Andy's best warriors, stopped instantly and waited for orders to move on. With great reluctance, Pete allowed himself to be tugged around until Andy could see his face properly, although it was probably cast into deep shadow by the huge cowl he had taken to wearing these days.

"Why wouldn't it like you? You're its Master now, and the Chancellor. It's _supposed_  to like you."

"That is not what I want." Pete looked down at Andy's fingers on his wrist. Andy might be fast enough to spell his name in bullet holes from fifty paces in five seconds, but Pete was enhanced far more than he was. He could crush Andy before he even _thought_ of pulling those guns.

 _then do it_

Pete shoved away that strange voice, one of the many which invaded his head, and twisted his arm out of Andy's hold. Without a word, he continued his march to the laboratories, and the guards kept their formation around him. The main laboratories appeared very much the same: wide spaces and shining metallic surfaces, harsh blue-white lighting illuminating the crowd of waiting engineers and scientists.

Pete focused on one in particular, Matthew Mixon, only because he knew that Arma's Head of Security was involved with him. Mixon was one of the few specialist who didn't appear apprehensive at the Chancellor's approach. As a matter of fact, he wasn't even looking at Pete; from the angle of his sight-line, Pete knew that he was staring at Andy. Even if his eyes hadn't calculated that slant, he would have known from the way Mixon's entire face softened.

Pete turned his head a little, so he could gauge Andy's reaction. Andy appeared stoic, as usual, but there was a relaxed expression to his face that Pete rarely saw.

 _how nice it would be to have something like that_. Another voice, this one more malevolent than the last, rumbled. _but you don't deserve something so wonderful._

Pete wanted to find a dank corner and tuck himself away, picking at his skin until he could get all the voices out. He suspected it was some after-effect of tapping directly into the communications grid, but he needed to know...and he needed to know _everything_.

The guards stopped and parted so that Pete could continue on between their neat rows, followed closely by Andy. He went right up to Gabe, pulling back the hood of his robe and looking up expectantly into the doctor's face.

"Chancellor Wentz," Gabe said, oddly formal. "We're honoured to be graced with your presence here in Arma's laboratories. We hope our work will be satisfactory to you."

Pete inclined his head; inside his mind, millions of voices, drawn from the city, mumbled and cried and laughed.

"All right," Gabe said, and hesitated for a moment before stepping to one side. There had been someone standing behind him, and now they looked back at Pete with a clear, untroubled expression. Sandy-red hair, pretty eyes and a prettier mouth, just as Pete had asked for. This person, this _Project_ , was close to his height as well, for as powerful as Pete was he was still relatively short of stature. For once, it seemed all the unwanted voices that had been increasing in his head for the past few years were silenced, and Pete smiled at the person who had been built just for him.

   
"Leave us," he said, and everyone found somewhere else to be; Andy, of course, would hovering close, ready to draw his guns if there was any apparent threat.

"Good day, Chancellor," the construct said with a voice so modulated, Pete swayed, struck by it. Perfect, perfect, _perfect_. He stepped forward, raising his hands in a jerky fashion before putting them inside his sleeves. The Project watched him with astounding innocence. 

"Hello," Pete said and swallowed hard. "What is your name?"

"What would you like to call me?"

Pete felt dismay curdle in the back of his throat. "I...Martin, I suppose," he finished, and blinked rapidly. The same thing again, even though they had all spent so long over Pete's specifications. "I'd like to call you Martin."

"Then Martin is my name."

"Would you be able to love me?" Pete whispered and grimaced at how his voice sounded, cracked like an old vase.

"If you would like me to love you, it shall be so."

Pete whirled around, seeing nothing at all. Gabe came close, expression worried; Pete must have made some conciliatory noise, for Gabe nodded and stepped aside.

What was missing? What was it that would make his Martin _better?_  He was wonderful, there was no denying the intricacy of the work that hand been done,  but Pete's heart told him that something was--

 _a heart, a heart, your life for a heart,_  one of the oily voices which had taken up residence in his head spoke up. _a machine without a heart is still just a machine._

A heart. Pete's roaming gaze snagged on Andy and Mixon, who were standing closest to him now. Andy reached out to him, frowning in concern, but Pete's focus was wholly captured by the way Mixon's fingers curved at the side of Andy's neck, comforting and drawing comfort. Pete blinked and then looked up at Mixon's face. It was a kind face, and a strong one.

The face of a person with a good heart.

*

 _"The logic of the heart is absurd."_   
_-Julie de Lespinasse_   


Pete sat at the desk in his surprisingly small office, signing agreements and reading proposals. He was waiting for Andy to speak, and since Andy hadn't spoken to him in over a month, Pete figured he might have a lot to say. Andy had carried out his duties with the same level of dedication and competence, but the confused betrayal banked low in his eyes seemed to scorch Pete whenever they had occasion to interact.

When Pete wrote on the third to last document, the sound of his old-fashioned pen a very loud scratching in the tense silence, Andy finally spoke up: "Why him?" His voice was very low, and hoarse.

Pete allowed one eyebrow to arch up; the expression was lost on Andy, who had his back turned. He was standing by the single round window, looking at the grey landscape with his hands clasped behind his back. From where Pete sat, he could see that Andy's metallic fingers were laced tightly together.

"I requested. He agreed," Pete said and kept his gaze on Andy, who turned his head enough so he could consider Pete out of the corner of one eye.

"An absolutely absurd and unnecessary request."

"And yet, as the highest commander, it is mine to demand," Pete said and pressed his lips tightly together when Andy spun around so violently that his long cloak flared up in a wave of dark cloth. Pete looked in his face and went cold at what he found there: it was just like what he saw in his own mirror every day. Underneath the almost overwhelming capability, Andy was hanging on by the most slender of threads.

"You do not need a human heart within your fucking machine," Andy spat and Pete rose up out of his seat with a deliberately threatening air. Andy didn't shrink back, but stood there with his hands now at his sides, near his guns. "It doesn't make any _sense_ , Pete."

"Mixon's new heart will be one of the most advanced machines ever created," Pete said softly. "There is nothing to fear."

"I don't know what's going on in that head of yours," Andy said. "But you've gone insane. You want to give your machine a real personality, and you _take out someone's heart_?! That makes no sense! The heart is just a muscle, it's not the seat of emotions or--"

"Then by your logic, Engineer Mixon will have no use of his." Pete smiled, watching the blood drain from Andy's face. "It's just a whim of mine, as they all say. What harm is it? Mixon gets a wonderful new mechanical heart, Martin will get a human one, we all win."

Andy stared at him for a breathlessly long moment; when his fingers moved to his holsters, Pete fully expected every round to be fired in his direction. Knowing Andy, he would aim after Pete's main power systems and take out every one. Therefore, Pete was deeply surprised when Andy simply unbuckled the belts from around his narrow hips and walked over to place them on top of the pile of papers.

"I'll kill you if I have them on," Andy said, and his eyes darted from side to side, wild. They suddenly snapped to Pete and pinned him there behind his desk. "He'll change. You know something everyone else _doesn't_ know, and you know he'll change."

"I have no idea what you mean." Pete kept an indulgent smile plastered on his lips, and listened to the legion whispering in the back of his mind. "It will all be fine."

"No." Andy took a single step back. "I told him he shouldn't. He said he would. It _won't be fine_. Pete, you can't make everything work the way you want."

"Andy," Pete said, but Andy turned around and walked out. The door swung shut behind him, a silent arc. "Andy.  _Andy_. Commander-General!"

Andy did not return.

*

 _"Now, you see, the world is full of temptations."_   
_-Jiminy Cricket_

*

Pete sat in the midst of his own suites, plugged into the writhing mind of the city. Hopes, fears, love and hate poured into his own mind and was soaked up the way parched earth would drink in long-awaited rain. He heard a soft knock on the outer door and began to disconnect himself as quickly as he could manage; however, it was a full five minutes before he walked out into the waiting room, finding Captain Trohman waiting with his hat in his hands.

"Have you located him?" Pete asked without preamble, and felt the sides of his mouth tilt down when Trohman shook his head.

"General Hurley trained all of us," Trohman said, and his expression was wry. "If he doesn't want to be  found, it'll be almost impossible."

Pete nodded, resigned. "How is Mixon?"

"He..." A cloud seemed to pass over Trohman's face, and was gone again just as quickly. "He's been asking for more enhancements. It appears that he has also switched his focus from Engineering and Science."

"To which field?"

Trohman shook his head. "We've not been informed as yet."

Pete sighed; it felt as if his own mechanized heart weighed heavily in his chest. "I'll speak to him later. But right now..." He hoped he didn't appear overly eager.

Captain Trohman nodded with an oddly twisted smile, and returned to the front door, pulling it open. Martin stood there in the corridor, eyes narrowed slightly. When he saw Pete, he glanced at Trohman, a wordless question.

"This is the Chancellor," Trohman said; his tone was very gentle.

"Yes, I remember," Martin answered, and there was an edge in his voice that snagged at Pete's attention even more than how he appeared; Martin looked like any human would, except he was devoid of any enhancements at all. He was, Pete mused, an enhancement unto himself.

"It's lovely to see you again, Martin," Pete told him and barely managed to hide a smile at the annoyed expression that crossed the Project's features.

"I don't like that name," Martin said. "I mean, it's not a _bad_ name, but--"

"You can have another, if you like." Pete wondered if there was a sun dawning inside him, he felt that light. "Any name you want."

Without hesitation, Martin said, "Patrick. I want to be called Patrick."

" _Patrick_ it is." Pete closed his eyes and waved one hand in the air. When he opened his eyes again, blinking away the moisture which had collected on his eyelashes, Trohman had departed and Patrick was standing inside, in front of the locked door.

Pete held out a hand; Patrick eyed it suspiciously before placing his own in it and allowing himself to be tugged towards Pete's long couch. Pete noticed that he glanced longingly at the small piano tucked into the corner of this room, and made a mental note to buy him any musical instrument his precious heart desired.

Patrick  sat down, right at the very edge of the couch. When Pete knelt in front of him, still holding one of Patrick's pale hands in both of his, his eyes went wide.

"Chancellor, what are you doing?"

"Would you be able to love me?" Pete asked, not daring to look him in the eye at the moment as he pressed his lips to the back of Patrick's hand. It was warm, and smelled like the moisturizing cream Pete used on himself, on those few patches of real skin he had left. Patrick tried to tug his hand away, but Pete held firm; he wondered if Patrick knew how strong he had been built, strong enough to protect himself and Pete.

Pete managed to look up at Patrick after a long time, and actually laughed at how Patrick had wrinkled his nose and leaned away, pressed back into the sofa. 

"Answer me, Patrick."

Patrick actually pouted. "I...don't know. I could. But it's not a guarantee." His pout descended into a scowl, but Pete still thought it was adorable. "That's not a very fair question to ask, Chancellor."

"You'll learn that, generally, life isn't fair," Pete said, and kissed his hand again. This was _it_ ; this was all he ever wanted.

 _you had to build something that might not love you? pathetic,_  one of the voices sneered.

"No," Pete replied to that mocking voice and turned over Patrick's hand, pressing the palm of it to his cheek. "This is how it must be."

Patrick's hand, which had been rigid up to this point, relaxed. Then, his fingers stroked Pete's jaw. "Chancellor...it's not a guarantee. But there is always a possibility."

Pete thought about the strong, kind heart residing in Patrick's chest...and he smiled.

 _fin_


End file.
